Batams Up

Dear fervent sea cucumber fans, I must begin this chronicle of the last month with a confession. I am no longer living alone and adrift at the edge of the earth. It is unlikely that I will ever return home to find a dozen chickens running around my backyard again and even less likely that the morning gridlock will be caused by a herd of lackluster water buffalo. Fear not, I have not forsaken the sea cucumber farmer profession. After a year and a half of using a hole in the ground as a bathroom, I had to accept the fact that my thighs had become so sturdy (Olympic Velodrome cyclist caliber), that it was time to abandon my modest commode in favor of a more porcelain venue.

Truth be told, our fledgling sea cucumber farm had outgrown the very primitive facilities we were using in the province of Bengkulu. After months of reconnaissance trips and negotiations, this July we moved into a new facility on the island of Setoko. Pulau Setoko is one of over 3,000 islands in the Riau Islands Province of Indonesia, and fortunately for me, is connected to the island of Batam by a series of bridges. Located an hour boat ride away, Batam benefits tremendously from its proximity to Singapore. Its road system is relatively hole-less and its municipal trash collection system is relatively functional. It even boasts a Starbucks and a McDonalds (please do not all rush to come visit at once). Batam is also a Free Trade Zone and major manufacturing center, which means the expatriate community is of a decent size. And so it was that I begrudgingly agreed to live in an idyllic little neighborhood known as Villa Panbil. Who am I to say no to a hot shower and a modern kitchen? Life will certainly be duller knowing that I will no longer find random peoples’ garments in my laundry, as I now have my own washing machine!n And a daily trash collection service means that gone are the days when I would drive down the street totally blinded by smoke, feeling like I accidentally stumbled onto the set of an Apocalypse Now battle scene.

Sea cucumber manor

The neighborhood

I should add that another exciting benefit of living in the Eden that is Villa Panbil is that it comes complete with a gym. I enjoy a good morning jog or swim and try to maintain a fairly active lifestyle. Life in the tropics does not seem to lend itself to such activities, I have noticed. In fact, while tending to my sea cucumbers I have spent hours pondering why the CrossFit trend has yet to sink its teeth into Indonesia. A recent trip to the mall in Batam offered a few possible explanations. It appears that the exercise equipment being sold in Indonesia simply operates on an entirely different level.

Exhibit A:

I am 100% serious, this is exercise equipment.

Exhibit B:

Complete with settings to simulate 1) Walking 2) Jogging 3) Running

Should the sea cucumber business fail, I look forward to a long career as a door-to-door JigglyChair™ salesman in the Midwest.

And while we are discussing sea cucumbers, I should mention that our move to Batam has, thus far, proved a very positive step for the production of my favorite echinoderm. Not wanting to miss out on the party, my indefatigable uncle flew back to Bengkulu several weeks ago to bring the randiest batch of adult broodstock in our possession back to Batam. The day before he was due to depart, my favorite customer service agents at Lion Air informed him that his 6AM flight the next morning was cancelled. Fortunately, none of our slimy cargo were packed, so the flight could be postponed to the following day, this time to an 11AM flight (the 6AM flight that day was once again cancelled by the very disingenuous medium of text message).  In an effort to maintain a perfect track record of ineptitude, the check-in attendants of Lion Air refused to transport luggage packed in a Styrofoam box. If you recall, over a year ago I travelled with three boxes of sea cucumbers, which were packed in Styrofoam boxes, inside cardboard boxes, using the “services” of Lion Air.  So it was that at 11AM my uncle arrived at Hang Nadim International Airport in Batam sea, cucumber-less, unable to get a refund on his original ticket. After appealing to the good people of Sriwijaya Airlines (Lion Air’s main competitor in the least value for money category of air travel) it was decided that the sea cucumbers would not be slumming it. Garuda Indonesia, the flag carrier of Indonesia, was recently awarded with “The World’s Best Cabin Crew,” and as it turns out “The Most Likely to Transport Live Sea Animals.” After nearly twenty hours waiting to get airborne, my colleague left our precious cargo in the capable hands of a Garuda Indonesia baggage handler, hoping the cucumbers would have a brief layover in Jakarta. But the Indonesian airline gods had other plans for us. After nervously waiting in a cargo bay at the airport, we were told that due to excessive amounts of luggage on the first flight from Jakarta to Batam, we would need to return four hours later. By the time our Bengkulu reached the tanks in their new home, they had been travelling for nearly twenty-eight hours, which is about as long as it takes me to fly from Los Angeles to Bengkulu.

Shaken, stirred and everything in between

Trying to get over that jet lag #seacucumberstruggles 

Before anyone calls PETA, I would like to explain that although air travel is certainly not a sea cucumber’s preferred method of transport, research has indicated that sea cucumbers are very capable of surviving for as long as two weeks in a plastic bag with oxygen and salt water, such is their hardy nature. I would also like to add that after a nice period of rest, relaxation, and a few Mai Tais by the pool, the sea cucumbers we brought enjoyed a productive evening of romance. We are now in the process of nurturing their offspring, which, once big enough, will be sent back to Bengkulu to help revitalize a population of sea cucumbers that may well have already gone extinct.

In an effort to welcome our Bengkulu sea cucumbers to their new home on the island of Batam, we also organized a very formidable welcoming committee. The scene was very reminiscent of the first day of high school. Cliques formed. The weedy stock from Bengkulu almost certainly experienced the sea cucumber equivalent of being stuffed in a locker by the jocks of Batam. I have been around a fair few sea cucumbers in my day (not a pick-up line I have ever used), and never seen specimens as robust as these. The largest, weighing well over one kilogram, is a modern rarity, as most wild sea cucumbers that size have all been fished out. And so it is that a new school year begins, filled with high hopes and big expectations.

The jocks

A very very large sea cucumber 

Our new digs

Near the locally famous Bareland Bridge 

New neighbors 

Haisom… All of it Yum, Yum

I knew the day would eventually come when I would have to meet my maker, but I did not anticipate that it would be at the hands of a lowly sea cucumber. Tragically, I fear this may be the fate that lies before me. As with any product-oriented business, quality control is very important.  Having not grown up with the delicacy as part of my diet, I am still very much a novice in the use of sea cucumbers in the culinary arts (and definitely not losing a second of sleep about it). However, quality must be tested and I was apparently the man for the job. So it was that I found myself taking the ferry from Batam to Singapore, praying that I did not have to explain to a customs official why it appeared I was trying to smuggle six dried and intact fecal specimens into their great nation. Thankfully, turds in the hand luggage did not raise any eyebrows and the next day my friend in Singapore helped me drop my precious cargo off at a Chinese restaurant. We met with the head chef of the restaurant, who seemed satisfied with the quality of my product, and told us that in two days we could enjoy the fruits of my labor. I repeat, in two days! Two freaking days! People are so desperate for sea cucumber that they are prepared to wait two whole days for the stuff! I cannot think of a single food on earth that I would happily wait two days to consume. What is going on here? Perhaps the entire nation of China has discovered that consuming sea cucumbers is equivalent to shooting a liter of heroine into the bloodstream, and is simply holding out on the rest of the world. Speaking of narcotics, have I ever mentioned how similar the jargon is for drug traders and sea cucumber farmers? A totally unforeseen consequence of my new line of work is that I now speak metric weights fluently. A not uncommon sentence to be heard around the office: “Well if we can get $80 US for 500 grams of the poor quality stuff, let’s push that around Indonesia, and save the good quality stuff for Singapore. $300 US a dried kilo over there. I’ve heard they will buy in powder form too.” And if you are like me, and want to stay abreast of all the latest sea cucumber news, you will discover that illegal sea cucumber smuggling rings are fairly commonplace. So move over Pablo Escobar, there is a new kid in town. All I am missing now is a cool nickname to join the likes of Griselda Blanco AKA: “The Cocaine Godmother,” and Amando Carrillo Fuentes AKA: “Lord of the Skies.” All suggestions are welcome, particularly those that would add a certain je ne sais quoi to my business card. Yes, even sea cucumber farmers have business cards. In fact, when travelling to places like Singapore where I more frequently engage in this mysterious art called “networking,” I have found it exceptionally useful to keep business cards on my person. Not because I think people are desperate to contact me, but because it provides an easy out for those who need a moment to look up sea cucumber in Google. ‘Here is my business card…yes that is correct, my name is Seth AKA the Donald Trump of Sea Cucumbers. And given your perplexed look, why don’t you take a moment to look it over, or do whatever else you need to do on your phone.’ Now the major issue with allowing someone to Google sea cucumber is that it usually results in even more confusion. For example, I recently Google Image searched sea cucumber and the results were fairly disturbing. Some may be a bit borderline NSFW (Not Suitable for Work) so proceed at your own risk.  

Gollum’s little brother

A very trippy, yet patriotic American Sea Cucumber

Undoubtedly the inspiration for Ridley Scott’s Alien

It comes in capsules?!?!?

 Just what is this? Someone actually spent time making this!  

Adopt a Sea Cucumber Foundation run by Jess_Zombies@hotmail.com 

Now the last image I found particularly fascinating because I am 100% certain that someone has been eavesdropping on my conversations and stole my idea for an “Adopt a Sea Cucumber” program. I have reached out to Jess_zombies@hotmail.com for further elaboration on her adoption scheme, but have yet to hear a response. And as long as he or she has not patented the idea, I fully intend to go ahead with my own adoption scheme. For a one-time, $2 fee, you can have the privilege of naming a sea cucumber. For $5 a month, you can ensure that a sea cucumber eats all of the feces and detritus its heart desires. And should you donate $100, you will receive monthly letters, personally addressed to you from your sea cucumber, updating you on major life events, sports news and the political situation in Camp Cucumber.   And while we are on the topic of donations, I have recently discovered that there is a gaping hole in my library. If anyone is looking to buy me a late birthday present, may I suggest Rise, Ye Sea Slug a compilation of 900 haikus about sea cucumbers, translated from the original Japanese by Robin D. Gill. Available in paperback.

For the visually-inclined, here is the cover you are looking for during your next trip to the book store

At this point I can practically hear the scoffs on the other side of the computer screen.  But sea cucumbers have actually captured the imagination of many an artist.  Did you know that the first movement of French composer Erik Satie’s work Embryons desséchés, “D’Holothurnie” (from the scientific class for sea cucumber, Holothuroidea) is meant to sound like the “purring” of a sea cucumber. I have never heard a sea cucumber “purr,” but after a quick listen via YouTube, I am pretty sure Monsieur Satie was tripping on some very potent mushrooms when he went to the aquarium to compose that little ditty. I would probably describe the piece, which was composed in 1913, as more of a sea cucumber waltz. Have a listen and let your imagination just play with that image for a moment. I should also add, in another interesting plot twist, Satie dedicated the composition to one Suzanne Roux. Now if that did not make Ms. Roux let down her hair from her ivory tower, then all I can say is I am thankful I did not grow up in the early twentieth century. Tough crowd, eh Monsieur Satie. As you can see, there is a lot of material to work with when I first begin to explain my line of work. And once the initial line of questioning has subsided and all parties have been convinced that is, in fact, an animal, well then that is when the real party starts. In fact, I have heard that bringing a dried sea cucumber around in a plastic bag during a bar crawl is a great conversation starter, but I have yet to prove that theory personally. Instead, I have been preparing to become Patient Zero for a new sea cucumber borne disease that the specifically targets twenty-eight year old Caucasians males from Southern California. Now to be fair to me, I have already tried sea cucumber once before. But to be fair to you, in reality I ate a sliver that was about a quarter centimeter by a centimeter. So you can understand why I recruited as many friends as possible to join my banquet at the Peach Garden Restaurant in Singapore. I figured the more people I invited to try the sea cucumber, the less I personally would have to consume. So with a hearty group of mixed ethnic origin, seven friends and I embarked on the culinary adventure of a lifetime: farm to table sea cucumber. Deferring to the Asian contingent of our crew to initiate the ordering process, it appeared that the motto for the evening was go big or go home. Our Lazy Susan quickly filled with jellyfish, an entire Peking duck, and enough Tiger Beer to, I hoped, kill every one of my taste buds. And of course there was the pièce de résistance, Fred and his three friends looking far from sexy.

 

Before: Fred’s family portrait at time of drop off to restaurant

After: family portrait as a Chinese delicacy

Welcome to the party Mr. Duck

Tragically, I made it only slightly farther into my sea cucumber this time. After two decent sized bites I felt very comfortable saying that I had tried it. And because I am no expert, why waste the perfectly good sea cucumber on me when there were far more discerning palates at the table. And the verdict was relatively positive. The general manager of the restaurant explained that generally, in order for the marinade to really soak in, more than two days of preparation are required. Phew, so it wasn’t just me that tasted pure bike tire rubber without a hint of flavor. But honestly, these bad boys are a lot of effort! More than two days! I was simply content knowing that my technique for processing sea cucumbers seemed up to industry standards. That and how many people have ever gone to a restaurant for a BYOSC – Bring Your Own Sea Cucumber? This guy has. Update: just prior to publishing, Jess_zombies@hotmail.com responded to my email enquiry: “Hi Seth. This was a little art project I started years ago and unfortunately is no longer active.”  Perhaps fortuitously for me, it appears I now have the corner on the Adopt-a-Sea-Cucumber market. Potential adopters please enquire within.

Come Back Tomorrow, the Plane is Full

My beloved uncle, who also happens to be my boss, regularly reminds me of a particular quote from Apocalypse Now:

When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. I’m here a week now… waiting for a mission… getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger.

Can you say Charlie? Ignoring the racial slur for the moment, the adage does hold some relevance to my current circumstance. Every moment I spend at home in California is a moment that the nation of Indonesia perceives me as getting “softer,” and begins licking its lips at the prospect of my return. So it is generally with some trepidation that I head to LAX for the 24-hour journey to Bengkulu, waiting to see what fresh torments lie ahead. And I did not have to wait long.

If flying across the Pacific Ocean in a Hello Kitty wonderland has always been on your bucket list, I would highly recommend the service by EVA Airways from LAX to Jakarta. And should the airplane itself not be enough to sate your thirst for the feline/humanoid cartoon, the layover in Taipei International airport will provide the opportunity to gaze upon her face for several hours. For the brave souls continuing on from Jakarta to Bengkulu, the pleasure of Terminal 1B is all yours. I know I have already discussed the intricacies of air travel in Indonesia, the A&Ws that are chronically without root beer, the collisions with cows on the runway, and stewardesses who quake at the thought of giving the emergency exit row instructions in English. The reason I continue to regale you with tales of airports and plane journeys is that Indonesia has made this fairly common method of transportation into one of the most regularly insane experiences a human could wish to have. For example: should you have spent the last 18 hours on planes surrounded by Hello Kitty’s demonic face, Terminal 1B is undoubtedly the last place on earth you want to drag your weary body through. Not caring how you look or feel at that point does have its advantages, however. It is far easier to disregard the hundreds of faces that stare at you as if you just walked into the terminal in an astronaut outfit. In fact, the most essential survival tip for navigating the infamous 1B is to find someone else also carrying a boarding pass with Bengkulu as the destination and never let that person out of your sight.  When they line up behind the glass door entrance of the gangway to the airplane, you had better be right behind them. And when they groan because the boarding agents announce that the flight is delayed, you are permitted to ask yourself, “how is this a surprise to anyone?” I am fairly certain I have never had the pleasure of an on time departure from Jakarta to Bengkulu and would wager that somehow, the first domestic flight of the day departing from Soekarno-Hatta International Airport is regularly delayed. Having a flight scheduled to depart much later in the day inevitably increased the chance of a delayed departure exponentially. And this journey did not disappoint. When Lion “let-them-suffer” Air begins providing food for the delayed passengers, you know you are in for a long one. And should the customer service department of Lion Air be interested in some feedback, I do applaud the gesture, but a bread roll stuffed with guano does not exactly make up for a three hour delay.   It is standard procedure to board passengers without any regard for seat number and, left to their own devices, passengers generally act like they are in competition for the last two seats on the Ark. I never fully understood this behavior until this particular Lion Air flight. Like all the other passengers, I lined up behind the glass doors, protected my 10 square inches of space with my life, and even joined in with a subtle jostle here and there when allowed to begin the boarding process. Unaware of the reason behind our delayed flight, I boarded the plane only to find that my seat, 29A, did not exist. The final row of the plane was 26. Puzzled, I handed my ticket to the stewardess who instructed me to sit anywhere. Collapsing into a seat in the last row, a fellow passenger explained that they had changed planes. Clearly they had swapped the original plane out for one of a smaller size. Moments later the repercussion of this decision became clear as I heard the stewardess tell passengers climbing the stairway up to the plane to “come back tomorrow.” For the physical safety of all the employees at Lion Air, I am very thankful I got a seat. By the time the flight took off, the exhausted remains of my body were fast asleep. The only thing that could rouse me mid-flight was a fairly vigorous patch of turbulence. Opening my eyes, I glanced at the girl next to me, who was clearly praying for life, and decided I was far too tired to care.

Hello Kitty anything and everything

Having survived the journey back to Bengkulu, I made a belated New Year’s resolution to try and maintain some of my newfound “softness.” No Indonesia, this softness is mine, now bugger off. Phase I: admit that cold water showers are fundamentally impossible to get used to. Although I am generally sweating bullets by seven in the morning, dumping buckets of cold water over your head simply does not relax the body.  With some careful time management and a very large pot, I have discovered that within an hour I can boil enough water to make my “shower” a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Adding to the gratification is the fact that once boiled, I can be certain that I am not dumping more water-borne parasites over by already besieged body. Me 1, Indonesia 0.

Phase II: explore the possibility of reengaging in recreational activities. While I could blame the dearth of recreational opportunities on a busy work schedule, I probably should give Bengkulu the credit it is due. There is next to nothing to do here. A sloth would probably find this place a bit dull. Besides the occasional trip to the local movie theater, which almost exclusively shows Indonesian horror films with names like Rumah Gurita (Octopus House) and American sci-fi films, leaving the city is the best opportunity for recreational activity.  Thus, when a fellow bule told me that Bengkulu was hosting a Color Run, I was fairly certain it was just a rumor, like the mythical Pizza Hut that never materialized. Ps. If anyone from Pizza Hut is reading this, I can single-handedly guarantee the profitability of opening a franchise in Bengkulu…please Pizza Hut, you’re my only hope. Unlike Pizza Hut, the Color Run did materialize and was so popular that it sold out almost instantly. Fortunately, a very well connected friend was able to purchase a ticket for me on the black market (if you can dream it, they can scalp it). So it was that on a recent Sunday morning, the majority of the Caucasian community of Bengkulu gathered at 6am with three hundred Indonesian teenagers to voluntarily run 5 kilometers while onlookers pelted us with paint.

Bengkulu’s bule, trying to blend in by painting their bodies.

For the amount of excitement Bengkulu offers, the Color Run was about as exhilarating as a seven-year-old kid’s first trip to Disneyland. Of the eleven Westerners to partake in the race, ten finished in the first fifteen. In fact, as I approached the finish line there were still dozens of participants who were a mere 100 meters into the race. It would probably have been more apt to call it a Color Walk. For some reason, Indonesia’s history in the area of track and field is not a particularly strong one. Of the 22 Indonesian Olympic Athletes to attend the London 2012 games, only two were participating in the Athletics, one in the 100 meters and one in the marathon. The 5K does not seem to be Indonesia’s race. However, I would like to give thanks to the powers that be that this little speck at the end of the earth somehow miraculously attracted the attention of the good people of Color Run™ and provide me with a very enjoyable respite from an otherwise relatively bleak recreation calendar.

And as if the week could not get any more exciting, a business trip to the province of Lampung, just south of Bengkulu, provided an opportunity to visit Pizza Hut, which I know I have not discussed much about up to this point. Travelling anywhere in Indonesia on foot, particularly big cities, is to be avoided at all cost. But if you do find yourself a ten-minute walk away from a Pizza Hut, and are certain it will be the greatest food you will eat for the next month, then allow me to paint a picture of what is in store for you. Foot travel is fairly similar to a game of Oregon Trail. At each impasse you are presented with options, which will affect your journey.   When a road must be crossed you may A) choose to ford the stream of motorbikes and risk losing a member of your party, or B) try to locate a crosswalk, which you may not find until summer has become winter. Once on the correct road you may A) walk on the asphalt and risk getting hit by a car, motorbike, farm animal etc., or B) walk on what presumably once was a sidewalk, knowing full well that falling into a gutter or ditch is likely, and will almost certainly introduce a cholera epidemic to your party thanks to the plethora of sewer vermin. Although the likelihood of your entire party making it all the way to Pizza Hut alive is not great, it is most definitely worth attempting. Not only is there pizza, and I mean real pizza, but have I ever mentioned that they have a salad bar?

The salad is real! The drinks are…probably detergent infused with essence of passion fruit.

Fortunately for me, returning from Lampung to Bengkulu provided an opportunity to rekindle my relationship with the kindly people from Lion Air. The day before our departure, using the preferred method of the SMS, Lion Air informed my colleague and I that our flight would be leaving two hours earlier than scheduled. Don’t worry Lion, I would expect nothing less! Your persistence at keeping me on my toes is commendable. I have had just enough of a breather and am now prepared to get back in the ring. Let Round Two begin!

The Durian Apocalypse

As 2014 draws to an end, it seems only fitting to reflect on the years highs and lows. Stolen laptops and floating turds aside, I am very encouraged by the progress our fledgling sea cucumber farm has made this year. Our fifth and final spawning run of 2014 was by far our most successful yet. I would go so far as to claim it has made us a legitimate player in the sea cucumber mariculture industry.  Bold claims, I know, but watch out world, there is a new kid on the block!

Watching sea cucumbers grow

Having hundreds of little juvenile sea cucumbers happily sitting around, doing nothing at all, is a tremendous feeling, and one I was very happy to end the year on. Little did I know that Indonesia would have its wicked way with me one last time before allowing my defeated body to return back to the United States for the holidays.

The trauma began the night before I was due to leave Bengkulu to begin my two and a half day journey home.   For an entire year I resolutely avoided consuming, touching or even looking at the infamous Southeast Asian fruit, durian. Indonesians are quite literal when it comes to naming fruit.  Rambutan, for example, literally translates to hairy, while durian literally means spikey.  Fitting for a fruit that looks like a dinosaur egg.   What I did not realize is that the fruit inside of the spikey casing also resembled a semi-fertilized dinosaur fetus. I came to this realization the night before leaving Bengkulu after I was coerced into trying durian for the first time.

My durian guru

Dinosaur fetus 

Most Westerners are disgusted by durian for several reasons.  Besides its terrifying appearance, its smells like water buffalo flatulence.  Once ingested, it torments the rest of the world by causing the consumer burp up the same paralyzing smell.  It is so potent that some public establishments, like hotels, forbid it on the premises. My first encounter with such a regulation was at a hotel in Malaysia. In the lobby the hotel prominently displayed a sign, which I assumed was forbidding bombs. It seemed a bit obvious to me, but perhaps they would rather be safe than sorry. A moment later I realized the signage in the lobby was actually indicating that smoking, littering and durian were forbidden. That is an unpopular fruit.

 No bombs allowed

Although I understand how the fruit could be banned because of its stench, after taking a few bites, I think there are also grounds for banning it based on taste. The texture is a cross between gooey cookie dough and Play-Doh, and it tastes a bit like a raw union. No appeal whatsoever. The even more unbelievable thing about durian is that people in Indonesia actually die to get this fruit. As I was told by my durian supplier (one-time gig), when harvesting the durian farmers actually have to shout for everyone to get out of the way because the falling spikey fruit can kill you.  I repeat, as I was told, this shouting attracts the attention of tigers which live in the forest areas of the durian tree. Risking life and limb for the most disgusting fruit nature has to offer seems ludicrous, but then again, some people actually choose to become sea cucumber farmers.

Having ticked durian off my Southeast Asia bucket list, I was looking forward to heading home for the holidays. My itinerary included a one night layover at a hotel in Jakarta to relax a bit before the long trip back to the United States. Moments after arriving, my hotel room became my sick room. I would love to blame it on the durian, but living where I do in Indonesia, almost anything could be the cause of a stomach bug. And a powerful stomach bug it was. For the next twenty hours, I alternated between shivering uncontrollably, vomiting and sleeping. Feeling slightly better, I headed to the airport in Jakarta hoping that my persistent fever sweats would not look suspicious to the immigration officers.  Walking through the airport in Taipei during my layover, I tried not to vomit in public.  In my head, I began preparing my speech – “No, I have not been to West Africa in the last month, yes I am sure. No I have not been in contact with anyone who has been to West Africa…no I do not have Ebola.”  Fortunately, I managed to hold it all together, and for the first time in history, I actually disembarked my final flight feeling better than I did when I left. Now that the stomach bug is vanquished, I can once again revel in the successes of the end of 2014. May 2015 be an even greater year for sea cucumbers the world over!

One Cup Size Does Not Fit All

The mainstream media frequently romanticizes the image of the sea cucumber farmer: wandering amongst tropical islands, sun-baked and bearded, the sea cucumber farmer pensively surveys his territory. While this image is not completely false, I would like to take this opportunity to educate the world about the expat struggle. Some might call this culture shock. Here it might be more aptly called culture quakes. We’ve had three this week and I am only referring to the very real, physical kind that moves your structurally unsound building.  On the culture front it has been an interesting month where expat struggles are concerned.

Romanticized image portrayed by the mainstream media 

Any expat who has done hard time in some of the lesser explored ends of the earth will tell you that trying to “blend in” or reclaim some semblance of the life you have left behind is often a futile endeavor.   Nonetheless, we try. For example, on a recent foray to my local “grocery store,” by some minor miracle, I found three boxes of Rice Krispies and Fruit Loops. I don’t know who robbed a cargo ship bound for America, nor do I care.  I bought as many boxes as I could fit in my backpack.  I am not a huge fan of Rice Krispies or Fruit Loops and would never eat them at home, but this discovery was just as likely as stumbling across a Fabergé egg in the middle of Antarctica. And let’s be real, if you found a Fabergé egg in the middle of Antarctica (assuming you knew what it was) would you leave it there? No, you would obviously take it and make sure there weren’t anymore lying around. Being active and or exercising is also far different than anything Southern California could have prepared me for.  I know what you are wondering, where does he find the energy? After a long day toiling away on a sea cucumber farm, does this mad man really want to exercise.  Yes, yes he does.  Fully committing to “blending in” would entail shuffling down an intermittently paved tarmac road in a full tinfoil suit.  Let me assure you, these exercisers did not recently cross the finish line of a marathon, nor were they filming the Indonesian remake of Rocky.  That is normal running attire, designed for maximum water loss.  Jogging obviously ruled out as a form of exercise, I thought I would check out the tennis options. If you have ever smashed an ace in, looked around hoping to see an impressed spectator chain-smoking his workday away and found nothing, then I urge you to come to Bengkulu and take a few swings with me.  No experience required.  Not recommended for asthmatics. More organized sports are also available.  Three of my colleagues children are on a Tae Kwon Do team, which, somewhat surprisingly, is very popular among Indonesian children.  Unsurprisingly, the amount of money being poured into youth sports in Bengkulu is not quite on the same level as what you might find in Southern California.  At a recent regional South Sumatra Taekwondo tournament, some questions were raised about the allocation of the limited funds that were available.  In the Olympics, Taekwondo looks like a pretty artful dance, less of a battle. Watching ten-year-old Indonesian children spar in Taekwondo is like watching an America’s Funniest Home Videos reel of shots to the groin.  Sensibly, the coaches recommend wearing protection.  It appears, however, that the Bengkulu Taekwondo club is the proud owner of one, yes just one, sports cup.  He who is fighting, gets to wear it – over his robe.  In this case, one size does not appear to fit all. It is about as painful to watch a little boy trying to kick his opponent while holding his sports cup up, as it is to watch him actually take a groin shot. As the holidays are approaching, if anybody is looking to spread a bit of good will, I do believe the Bengkulu Boys Under-16 Taekwondo Club is looking for an extra sports cup or two.

The slightly stretched-out piece of apparel in question

 

So much protection needed…so few options…1) sports cup 2) numbing spray down the robe (no. joke.)

In some cases, not being able to blend in does have its advantages. On Monday morning, I was en route to feed some hungry sea cucumber mouths with two of my colleagues when we had the misfortune of running into a police checkpoint. The Bengkulu police department is about as active as a heavily sedated sloth so being waved to pull over was shocking, for the calorie-burning effort it induced if nothing else.  I will preface what happened next by explaining that every vehicle in Indonesia is required to have a registration and the driver must have said registration on his or her person for the one day a year the police decide to take a break from the laborious task of reading the newspaper while drinking coffee.  Our car registration was still at our office.  While we waited for that document to be brought to us, the police officer confiscated my British colleagues drivers license and began a twenty questions routine. Where are you from? (Clearly not apparent from the drivers license). What are you doing in Bengkulu? Farming sea cucumber. Can I have some sea cucumber? This is a Public Service Announcement to all Indonesian police officers: if you are going to disrupt my day and badger me with inane questions, the likelihood of me giving you a sea cucumber is pretty much zero. We offered to pay the fine for our mistake but for some reason the police officer would not accept it (or the bribe it insinuated).  He insisted we follow him to the police station or it would look like discrimination.   Since every Indonesian breaking the law was paying the fine on the spot, I was unconvinced he understood the meaning of that word. Fortunately he did have a few shreds of sense and recognized that we worked with living animals, which die without food.   So in exchange for letting the vehicle go, he made another one of my colleagues stay with him until he could be taken to the police station.  Apparently, the issue was that he did not want to fine us, but felt it would look discriminatory if he let us off without paying.  He did insist on us bringing him some sea cucumbers at some point though, and asked if he could visit us in America.  That notion disappeared completely once he learned that Americans do not eat rice three meals a day.  Probably for the best Mr. Irzal, probably for the best. In related “blending-in” news, our project has hit a significant milestone.  Our first batch of fingerlings (baby sea cucumbers) were finally big enough to start burrowing/camouflaging themselves in the sand of their tank.   After devouring nearly all the algal film on the sand of their tank, we decided they were ready for the ocean.  Today, like a proud parent sending their child to the first day of school, I introduced our rambunctious street gang to the big blue.  In the famous words of Crush, Finding Nemo‘s gnarliest sea turtle, “Let’s see what little Squirt does, flying solo!”

A true survivor.  This little nipper is Bengkulu born-and-bred

 

 Our first batch of sea cucumber groms 

“Call back in 3 hours. We are on the lunch!”

Prologue: Due to a much needed vacation and a new visa for Indonesia, the author has been absent from the blogosphere for the past month and a half. Apologies, faithful readers. I am pleased to announce that after a ritual juice and beer cleanse, the author is back in action.

 Claiming that the bureaucracy of the Indonesian government is inefficient is a criminal understatement. The immigration office in Bengkulu is particularly hazardous. On multiple occasions I punctually arrived at the office for my appointment only to find the entire visa staff crowded around a pretty heated table tennis match. This “laid-back” approach to government administration seems to carry over to national offices in America.   When I was back in Los Angeles last December, I took the Los Angeles consulate for a test-run. It would be polite to say I was underwhelmed by the service. Apparently I was not the only one. The Indonesian Consulate General in Los Angeles has been reviewed 15 times on Yelp and received a total rating of 1.5 stars out of 5. A few highlights include:

“WARNING: If possible, DO NOT visit the same day you have PMS.” 

“The only reason I give 1 star is because it won’t allow me to give “0”.”

“You probably win the lottery first before getting a decent service from this place.”

“Don’t ever visit this place unless you really truly have no other option.”

“I called to ask a simple office hour. and I got one man just keep screaming “call back in 3 hours. We are on the lunch!” ”

“If you know yoga or Tai Chi, you are at the slightest advantage. Remember to practice the breathing control while you are visiting Indonesian Consulate.” 

One Yelp-laureate decided to post the Indonesian Consulate’s holiday schedule.  It does seem like a nice place to work.

I was zero percent stoked about the prospect of having to apply for a new Indonesian visa at such a fine institution.   But Yelp-laureates, it appears the Indonesian government is listening. Even though my paperwork was not fully in order, the visa officials were very helpful, and four days after dropping off all of my forms, my passport was wearing a brand new Indonesian visa.  No Tai Chi or yoga needed!

Two weeks later, I was back in Indonesia, knee-deep in sea cucumber, hitting the ground running. Our fourth spawning attempt proved our most successful yet, with the little beauties spawning perfectly on cue.

This is Bob, the Rasta sea cucumber, enjoying some “herbal” refreshments

 The critical part of that last statement was on cue.  Sea cucumbers in many parts of the world tend to spawn naturally  in accordance with the lunar cycle. Impressive for a species with no eyes.  As if the world needed another reason to admire the insane awesomeness of the sea cucumber, these guys enjoy full moon parties as much as the next backpacker to Asia!

In other backpacking-around-Asia-related-news, last week I found myself on my fourth trip out to the island of Enggano. Enggano has featured prominently in several of my other blogs for several reasons. One, the ferry ride there is an overnight journey that ranges from twelve to seventeen hours depending on weather conditions. Karaoke starts promptly at 7:00PM, and chain-smoking begins an hour or so prior to that. Not a fan of either activity, I generally take the karaoke as a cue to pop some Ambien and forget about the “seaworthiness” of the vessel I’m riding in.

 Worrisome that all life jacket application instruction is in English, when no one around me understands a word of it.

 

 The ferry boat birds, named S, O, and S, respectively. To be used as carrier pigeons should the vessel begin to sink. 

The second reason Enggano has featured prominently is that it is paradise. I should qualify that statement by saying it paradise for certain people, under certain conditions. The conditions I have identified are as follows:

• Enggano is located about 100 kilometers off the coast of Sumatra. Should one’s boat miss the island, the next sighting of land would most likely be Tanzania. So if you are afraid of the open ocean, this island paradise is not for you.
• Electricity runs intermittently from 6:00PM to 12:00PM, depending on if someone has brought enough gas to run the generator. Cell phone reception is equally undependable. If you need electricity, this island is also not for you.
• I woke up to find a crab crawling over my leg. If you do not like finding crabs in your kitchen (not served up as food), living room, or bedroom, this island is also probably not for you.
• If reptiles aren’t your thing, you may not enjoy this place either. Enggano is home to saltwater crocodiles, scorpions and snakes. My host for the duration of my stay told me about a Belgian guy who was using the outhouse, when he looked up into the rafters and saw a python. I was pretty relieved to hear that story on my last day in town instead of the first.
• If minor incidents, like your boat springing a leak mid-journey, stress you greatly, then this also may not be an ideal destination.  I should say that the boat was never that far from shore and although the leak gushed with impressive force, a brave companion plugged the whole with his thumb until a wooden stopper could be carved out of what looked like a broom handle.  If you are the type to panic in such circumstances, however, I would suggest that local transportation is not for you.
• Finally, If you are not Indiana Jones on a motorbike, I also believe that this is not the island for you. There is very little semblance of a road. A 20 kilometer journey between two villages took over an hour. Harrowing bridge crossings demand a high level of motorbike balance beam proficiency, and should your bike begin to slide, do not be fooled into thinking there is a solid platform to put your foot down on. In some cases your foot will try and catch your bike from wobbling too much, only to find some turkey forgot to add the plank, sending your foot straight through the bridge, feeding your sandal to the jungle.

If none of those conditions are problems for you, then I would highly recommend a trip to Enggano. Who knows, you may even stumble across a sea cucumber farmer pretending to be Robinson Crusoe.

Sometimes the bridge is missing a few bits.

Sometimes riding through the ocean is easier than using the road.

Our generous host’s mother and youngest son.

Enggano at sunset.

The Pocari Sweats

July was definitely not the month of the cow.  Traffic laws are virtually non-existent in Indonesia.  You are just as likely to see someone holding their helmet in their hands as they motorbike down the road as you are to see them actually wearing it.  Right-of-way is designated by the first driver to honk and God help you if you don’t pull out into the intersection just before the light has turned green.  All that anarchy aside, I was recently driving down a major thoroughfare (four lane road) through town and saw a collision between a motorbike and a cow.  More accurately, I saw the aftermath, which looked like a motorbike lying on top of a cow, the driver splayed out a few yards away.  The scene only lasted a second before the driver sheepishly rushed over to pick up the bike and the cow gave the despondent look of one who has just failed another suicide attempt.

A few days prior, I literally almost tripped over the result of more man on cow violence.  Going out to check on our sea cucumbers has never been a journey without peril.  Several months ago I was faced with human fecal matter floating between me and my boat.  This time I figured the white shape in the water was just another plastic bag.  That is, until I nearly fell over a pair of hooves.  Water buffalo hooves to be specific.  It took me a long time to discern that it was a water buffalo because its entire mid-section was missing.  It looked like someone went Texas Chainsaw on the buffalo’s meaty bit and discarded the front and back, legs, hooves, and all, into the water.  According to a local man standing nearby, someone “stole” the missing part of the cow.  How exactly that happens without other people noticing is beyond me.  Water buffalos are not quiet animals.  Had I not seen the attempted suicide by the regular cow a few days later, I would have assumed the water buffalo would have not been chainsawed to bits willingly, but who knows.  I think it is probably best to allow that one to stay a mystery.

By contrast, July and August have been excellent months for family bonding.  My parents and brother, aunt, uncle and cousin all met up for a week of diving in Bunaken National Park off the coast of Sulawesi.  It was an incredible spot, particularly because every cow we passed along the side of the road was tied up.  I’d call that progress.

 

My cousin checking out an anemone 

 

Chilling with the locals

 

 

We went chasing waterfalls

 

Into the abyss 

After a week of playing in the octopus’ garden, my brother came back to Bengkulu to intern on the sea cucumber farm for a month.  As part of his experience, I thought it was critical he complete several Southeast Asian rites of passage.  The first was the cliche elephant ride.  What Westerner can go to Southeast Asia without getting a photo riding on an elephant?  Luckily, in Bengkulu we could cross that off the list just by taking a trip to the mall downtown. For $1, you, or more accurately your child (or 24 year-old brother), can take a ride on an elephant around the mall.  I personally cannot think of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

$1 for the pleasure of doing this

On that same trip to the mall I discovered that America has been going about this whole diet and  fitness thing all wrong.  Few people know this, but Bengkulu is actually a mecca for the world’s leading health and fitness minds.  And this is what they came up with…magnetic underwear.

 

…

Guaranteed to dramatically increase metabolism and the likelihood of contracting testicular cancer!  The only way I can actually see that working is that the underwear is so uncomfortable that it actually forces one to move more than normal.  I don’t think George Lucas ever envisioned Darth Vader’s mask being worn around the crotch, but then again, he is not a Bengkulu visionary.  So if magnetic underwear leads to a healthier lifestyle, I’ll take three pairs ma’am.

The next rite of passage my brother needed to endure to prove his mettle was the dire bathroom challenge.  In a nutshell, one must get the runs under less than favorable circumstances.  An eight hour bus ride for example.  Unfortunately, the toilet gods were particularly cruel to my poor brother.  The only way to get to an offshore island we are hoping to grow sea cucumbers on, is to take an overnight ferry ride.  During favorable weather conditions, the journey is about twelve hours.  These conditions were not at all favorable.  We left in the middle of a rain storm and had pretty choppy seas the entire journey.  Going to the bathroom on the ferry is unpleasant under ideal conditions.  Getting the runs on a ferry during stormy weather and having to use a squat pot in a bathroom with no lights or locks is downright heroic.  Definitely deserving of an ESPY, or, at the very least, a hearty round of applause for an admirable performance.

 

The ferry situation

Brother bonding: tandem poncho?

 

And the final rite of passage for this budding sea cucumber farmer intern: obviously to blog about the trials and tribulations of his new occupation.  So here is the man of the hour:

Aloha loyal blog followers! It’s been quite an adventure here in Indonesia and this short entry is just a brief glimpse into my experience. When I first told my uncle, the company’s illustrious CEO, that I was thinking of coming to spend some time helping out on the farm his immediate response was “You know there aren’t any pub crawls in Bengkulu, right?”  Knowing full well this great risk I was taking, I nonetheless went ahead with my travel plan.  In preparation for my departure I sent Seth a quick email asking what I should pack. “Toilet paper and water” was all he replied. Having been in Indonesia for six weeks now, I can safely say that those are in fact the two most important items for a Westerner’s survival (see aforementioned boat incident).  My mastery of the squat pot, however, was not immediate, with the first attempt seeing limited success. And laughter. And sweat. Lots of sweat.  From the moment I boarded the plane to Bengkulu… sweat.  Before takeoff I looked over at Seth and told him I thought something was wrong. I was pouring sweat and flirting with the idea of fainting in his lap.  Luckily, I’ve found an answer for this problem. The solution, oddly, is also sweat. Pocari Sweat. This aptly titled “ion supply drink” has been a dear friend this past month.  Anyone out there have a definition for “Pocari?”  There is actually a ton of internet literature about this subject, but nowhere can its origin be found. Urban dictionary suggests “The sensation of actually drinking the stuff is like putting your tongue on the twin terminals of a 9v. battery,” but then again they probably haven’t lived in Bengkulu for a month.

A man and his sweat

On a completely different note, life in sea cucumber land took a surprising turn this week.  After weeks of waiting for microscopic larvae to turn into less microscopic larvae, the day finally arrived.  I am proud to announce we have managed to keep sea cucumbers alive through all three of their larval stages.  And the toddlers look like this…

Sea cucumber Jamboree 

I will admit, they do not look like the aquatic sex symbols I have documented in other blog posts, but they are still young, and I have a good feeling about this crew.  Watch this space…

A Tribute to Our Fallen Larvae

Apologies, cyber fans, for the long delay.  The truth is, being a sea cucumber farmer has suddenly become a very perilous profession.  I now have blood on my hands.  Not blood exactly, because sea cucumbers don’t seem to have blood.  Mucus, yes, and lots of it.  But when a fully grown sea cucumber dies it literally begins to disintegrate and stink like rotting whale flesh, or what I imagine that to smell like.  Most of the “blood” on my hands is not actually from fully grown sea cucumbers.  Tragically, it is the 280,000 larvae that developed from last month’s frenzied echinoderm orgy.   None survived.  It was like a scene from Jonestown.  Wherever you are in the world right now, join me in a moment of silence to remember our fallen larvae.  Fly your flag at half-mast and when you feel bad about killing that house plant, think of me and my larval apocalypse.

  

In Memorium

May 22, 2014 – June 07, 2014

Larva #189,201 was a fighter till the bitter end

Tragically its (gender unknown) life was cut too short 

R.I.P.

Before we kick the pity party off, however, I would like to say two very important things.  First, and most critical, we have already successfully spawned a second group of sea cucumbers and their larvae are still alive, and even more developed!

Second, early-on we identified a very critical problem in our first trial.  A more seasoned sea cucumber guru may have acted more quickly, but in our excitement at witnessing our first spawning, we neglected to remove the surplus of sperming male specimens.  The consequence of this veritable sausage fest was a biological phenomenon called polyspermy.  Sea cucumbers, as it turns out, do not enjoy an overabundance of sperm during their particularly strange form of coitus.  Multiple sperm from multiple males attempting to fertilize an egg simultaneously can result in deformed eggs, retarded larval development and eventual death.  Clearly, the circumstances of our first spawning run proved less than favorable for producing healthy offspring.  So, gurus of the sea cucumber world, I am pleased to announce, lesson learned.  Improvement expected.

Another possible explanation for our larvae’s speedy demise was the beginning of Ramadan, and a month of fasting for the majority of the Sumatran population.  It would be impossible to prove that sea cucumbers follow one religion or another, but should our band of marine creatures be practicing Muslims, one theory would suggest they died as a result of abstaining from food during a critical period in their development.  Nothing can be ruled out at this point.

A third possibility, which I hate to admit, is human error.  This month has seen an almighty trifecta: babysitting duties increasing from 0 to 280,000 overnight, the beginning, middle and end of the World Cup, and the start of Ramadan.  What it has meant for yours truly, the man on the ground, is an increased work load, compounded by serious sleep deprivation (thanks soccer gods for those 11pm and 3am kick-offs), and the perpetual quest to find a restaurant that is open when I begin to get hungry around lunchtime.  Sensible coping strategies could include nap-taking (an activity I have never been able to do), packing a lunch (with what? a BLT? fat chance), or forgoing the World Cup, a once-every-four-year spectacle that is by far the most holy of all sporting competitions, which I only intend to miss if I am in a coma.  Conquered by this dire trifecta, I am pretty much operating at the speed of a sea cucumber’s light jog.  My hair has turned into an unruly mop, think early Cat Stevens, and my mental state a bit hit-and-miss.  Under these circumstances, I cannot guarantee that it was not gross negligence on my part that resulted in this most tragic mass mortality event.

Fear not, faithful followers.  More larvae are already in the pipeline.  The World Cup is samba-ing to a close.  And thanks to my uncle’s recent return from a trip to America, I am now armed with boxes of granola bars and a French press (thanks Mom!).  The future is looking bright for this sea cucumber farmer.  And the terrifying prospect of trying to get my hair cut looms (important tip: it is ABSOLUTELY required a patron immediately state he does not wish his facial hair to be trimmed or touched in any way.  Had a close shave with that one last time).

If it’s good enough for Him…

Jonesing For Some Action

Disclaimer: this blog entry is for mature audiences only.

It is with deep regret that I must inform you all that I believe I have solved the mystery of why my sea cucumbers grow so quickly. A few weeks ago I was preparing to give my juvenile sea cucumbers their weekly check-up when I was stopped dead in my tracks. It’s the kind of sight you know exists but don’t really believe until faced with the sheer terror of it. Bobbing alongside our boat was a human turd. What this lone ranger was doing out in the middle of the day is anyone’s guess. The community we are working is characterized less by affluence and more by effluence, but this still came as a bit of a shock. To be clear, the area we are actually growing our sea cucumbers in is about three-quarters of a mile away from our boat’s berth. So fear not sea cucumber consumers of the world, your favorite delicacy is still in good hands.

I, however, was not sure what to do with my hands. In a situation like that, strategies can really vary. You can try and prod it out of the way with a stick, but then what do you do with the stick? You can curse as it bobs along. Or you can convulse as you laugh hysterically, which is what I opted for. The problem is, it is difficult to erase such an encounter from one’s mind. And knowing that one must get in the boat to attend to one’s precious sea cucumbers is a disheartening realization. An attempt at the long jump entry comes with a HIGH degree of difficulty when your boat is the size of Pochantos’ canoe. Asking for someone to bring the boat closer to shore surely forfeits all credibility as a hardened sea cucumber farmer, and undoubtedly draws even more attention to the aforementioned turd. Other options exhausted, it is recommended to wait until the vile intruder is a safe distance away, pretend it does not exist, and get on about your business as quickly as possible before returning home and running a bath of pure bleach.

Despite that lowest of lows, this month also brought the highest of highs. I am proud to announce that we successfully spawned our first group of sea cucumbers, and what a hot and steamy affair it was. Allow me to go into all the unrated details. Typically, the night before inducing spawning all of the sea cucumbers are put in a fresh tank of water and allowed to defecate. This makes for cleaner eggs if the spawning succeeds the next day. As I prepared to move the sea cucumbers into their new tank, it appeared one particularly randy gentleman was ready for the party to start right then and there. For those of you unaware of the intricate mating rituals of the sea cucumber, typically part of the sea cucumber’s body is standing upright in the water column. Because sea cucumbers are broadcast spawners, meaning they simply release their eggs into the water, a higher vantage point allows for better dissemination of their sperm or egg. In addition, they typically sway during this process. Over the course of the next hour, we counted thirteen males releasing sperm. This group was definitely jonesing for some action. And given the amount of swaying going on, from above it looked like a cross between Woodstock and an X-rated film. Male sea cucumbers are capable of releasing sperm for up to three hours, and before anyone suggests calling a doctor, I will clarify that that is without performance enhancing substances. Clearly it is a testament to their raw masculinity.

The very randy gentleman.

About an hour later, one very cooperative female decided that, even though the party was a bit crowded, it was still worth a shot. And that is pretty much how it happened…one very quick burst of eggs, followed by two much smaller bursts. And job done, romance over.

The lady in question.

A proud father.

After reflecting on the entire spawning process, it seems that the greatest misfortune to befall the sea cucumber actually relates to how it reproduces. The great tragedy is that sea cucumbers never get to know the joy of falling in love. There is no courtship, no mating rituals, and certainly nothing that would follow after that. There is only an optimistic release of sperm or egg, and the infinite uncertainty that follows. They will never know if their sperm or eggs found a mate, or if their children grew up to be upstanding bottom dwellers of the ocean. I believe there is only one way to truly understand and accept the unbearable sadness of these creatures futile search for love, and that is through a tribute video:

The Resurrection of John Wayne

The last few weeks have definitely been the toughest in Indonesia.  We are talking about some lows that reach sea cucumber level.   During a trip to the most popular mall in Bengkulu, some entrepreneurial young Indonesian, doubtless aware of our status as sea cucumber moguls, decided to break into our car and steal both mine and my uncle’s backpack.   Inside were two MacBook computers, two digital cameras, an iPod, and my wallet (no cash inside but enough credit cards to be the world’s largest pain in the ass – thank you schmucks).

After reporting the incident to the parking police it appeared we unwittingly parked in the only area of the lot which the CCTV did not cover – right next to the mall entrance.  Could it have been an inside job?  If this was a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure story I would hazard to say yes.  Regardless, the mall rent-a-cops proved useless, so we headed to the local police station, where I hoped some rough looking dude in a sweat stained wife beater would go Slumdog on some local punk kids.  I guess not all dreams can come true.

During the four hours it took to take three statements about the incident, the questions came fast and furious.  And no one beat around the bush.  On four separate occasions we were asked if we left the doors unlocked, with thousands of dollars of equipment inside, while we went shopping.   Other relevant questions to the case included the names of our parents, our religion and what type of Indonesian food I liked best.   Perhaps the most pertinent, which, fortunately was targeted at me, “Are you single or double?”   Um, I may be American but I think my shape more resembles a single.  And to preempt your next question, no I am not looking for an Indonesian wife, so cool it chubs.   Needless to say, these guys make Sherlock Holmes look like Inspector Clouseau.  That much was clear from the outset.

The day after we filed our police report we went in for a follow up visit.  When we walked into the office, one of the detectives was lying prone on the floor, eyes firmly shut.  He gamely continued his nap while we offered a follow up statement.  Clearly this was all a ruse to deceive the perpetrators of the crime.  He probably just did his best detection work while asleep.  That or he could have been exhausted from pursuing multiple leads on the case.  In all seriousness, I did appreciate the help from the police.  In our time of need they kindly offered us a round of iced tea.  We built up such camaraderie, in fact, that after leaving the police station the tea boy came chasing after us.  Apparently we had the honor of paying for our own tea.  Seven dollars and fifty cents, for a round of drinks that would normally cost two.  A small price to pay for our fifteen minutes of fame.

In a town like Bengkulu, it is very difficult for us six white folk to do much of anything without attracting much attention, let alone being the victims of the crime of the year.  The coconut wireless is extremely effective here, and within minutes of reporting the incident to the local authorities, cameramen and reporters were on the scene to interview everyone except me and my uncle.  The following morning my face was on the back page of the biggest newspaper in Bengkulu, Rakyat Bengkulu, and several people said they saw us on TV.  Not exactly how I imagined my big break coming, but I’ll take it.  For those of you who are not avid readers of Rakyat Bengkulu, it is a wonder none of their writers have won the Pulitzer Prize.  In a fine bit of journalism, the paper reported that on April 16, 2014, a 47 year-old man named John Wayne left one of his car doors unlocked outside the biggest mall in Bengkulu and had one laptop and two digital cameras stolen.  Pick your mouth up off the floor and jump on the first plane to Bengkulu all you Western fans.  John Wayne is alive and well, and working on some small indie flicks over here (the scenery is just perfect, you don’t even need to build sets!).  At this point I would also like to interject a Letter to the Editor of Rakyat Bengkulu:

Dearest Sir or Madam or Small Child,

I am currently able to read Bahasa Indonesia proficiently enough to understand that, despite your journalism team’s diligent efforts to gather all the facts of this extremely difficult case, they have failed epically.  Not only did they insult my intelligence by suggesting I knowingly left my car door unlocked with over three grand worth of equipment in it, but the inability to record the most basic facts about the victims of this crime lead me to believe your daily rag would best be suited for the bottom of a chicken coop.  I have yet to see a single chicken coop in the entire environs of Bengkulu, yet have had many close calls on both motorbike and automobile.  I am interested in bringing the invention of the chicken coop to the good people of Bengkulu and would like to request information about purchasing your paper in bulk quantities to assist me in my endeavor.  I very much look forward to hearing back from you regarding my request.

Sincerely, John Wayne Jr.

 

               

                        John Wayne                                                                      Not John Wayne

Ranting aside, shit happens as they say, and our project must go on.  During this travail I learned my favorite new word in Bahasa Indonesia.  Semangat!  As I understand it, it roughly translates to spirit or encouragement.  It is a pep talk in a single word, and it is amazing.

I am slightly concerned, however, that we may now be approaching our project with a bit too much spirit.  Allow me to explain.  One of the fundamental components of our project is to grow several types of algae to feed the sea cucumber babies while they are still larvae.  This is by far the most technical aspect of the process.  It requires a bit of chemistry (damn…should have paid more attention in high school).  In order to grow the algae, they are gradually fed different types of fertilizers.  This isn’t just the kind of fertilizer you run down to Home Depot for.  All of our fertilizers we make from scratch mixing different kinds of chemicals.  Faithful readers, please trust me, this is absolutely, 100% for the sea cucumbers…do not get any ideas.

Finding a chemical like Manganese Chloride Tetrahydrate in Indonesia has been a process that has taken me several months, given me many headaches, and I am still waiting for it to arrive.  The problems are many.  Shipping chemicals between islands in Indonesia is extremely difficult and no one ever seems to have it in stock.  A typical morning in our office sounds like an episode of Breaking Bad.  Me: please order me 100 grams of the high quality stuff from the guys in Medan, and if your friend can find that other stuff in Jakarta for cheaper, I’ll take, but only if they can send me 10 kilos, and I only want it if it will be here by Friday.  In all seriousness, there are about 10 different white powders in plastic bags coming in and out of our office.  We have not forced anyone to work in their underwear yet, although this stuff is not cheap, and did I ever mention how hot it is in Indonesia?  Seriously, if the police retrieved my laptop and brought it to my office, I feel fairly certain me they would arrest me on drug trafficking charges.  Luckily, we have an exceptional staff of locals who have hounded their countrymen across the archipelago in pursuit of powders I can barely pronounce in English.

Weighing the product

Ammonium Sulfate…I think

Despite the challenges of collecting all the chemicals we need for our project and the huge disappointment of the theft, I am feeling more and more confident that our project will succeed once everything is in place.  And it is all coming together.  I will only briefly mention a minor triumph we had this week, because of the nature of the triumph.  As I have previously mentioned, the road to our hatchery does not merit the name road.  It is a collection of rubble vomited up by Mother Earth that becomes completely impassable after a good rainstorm.  On multiple occasions I have had to push the car out of water buffalo feces-ridden mud patches.  There is, however, an alternate route through a village located directly beside our hatchery.  Thus far, we have not been allowed to use this road because this village is taboo.  Let’s just say the red lights they hang up aren’t for Christmas.  This week we finally were able to meet with the leader of his village to discuss using the road.  The meeting took place inside his dance hall (disco ball and strobes included), which was adjacent to a hallway lined with bedrooms.  Maybe he has many children?  The meeting went very well and we now have ID cards indicating that we have eyes only for sea cucumbers.  The disposition of the security guards outside the village seems to have softened and hopefully I no longer have to push the car through some very suspicious looking mud.  So despite the rough couple of weeks, I think it is important to celebrate the little victories.  Semangat!

Checking in at the local security post using our new route to work